


Heart of Kyber

by EirianErisdar



Series: The Jedi Who Endured [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infinite Sadness once again has it in for Obi-Wan but, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The galaxy loves their Jedi and is determined to show it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EirianErisdar/pseuds/EirianErisdar
Summary: With part of the Open Circle Fleet docked for some much-needed shore leave after a harrowing battle, Obi-Wan gives the rest of the 212th the slip and wanders planetside alone.In which the world is both too quiet and too loud at once, but is saved by tea and Oi-oi berry shortcake.
Series: The Jedi Who Endured [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016758
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93





	Heart of Kyber

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to FFN in 2017, crossposted to AO3 in November 2020

It is not easy to slip unseen out of a _Venator_ -class star destroyer.

Obi-Wan slides the small maintenance hatch shut, and is faced with the words _ACTIVATE MAGNETIC SOLES NOW_ painted there in bold aurebesh. He ignores this; there are no magnetic boot-soles in standard Jedi boots.

He hangs there for a moment, and considers the half-kilometre drop down to the bottom of the Republic naval dockyard.

If he had cared to look up, Obi-Wan would be faced with the yawning cavern of a ventral turbolaser; but he does not, and so he simply swings gently in the breeze. Twenty years ago, when he was a young and green padawan, he might have paused and gave some thought to the fact he is hanging by one hand off the belly of a star destroyer, right in the blasting path of a turbolaser emitter; but the thought does not even flicker through his mind, now.

So.

Hidden in the shade of the massive destroyer's shadow, Obi-Wan spies a perfect landing spot. He closes his eyes, feels for a gap in the breeze, and loosens his hold on the maintenance bar.

He drops like a straight-backed statue, russet cloak streaming up above him. Then he tucks his knees into his chest, and his cloak presses against his back as he curls into the cushion of the Force, slowing his fall.

His boots are silent as they impact the duracrete, precisely in the small cul-de-sac between three cargo crates.

Obi-Wan straightens, runs a hand through his windswept hair, and readjusts his cloak.

It is not easy to slip out of a star destroyer.

But it is not anywhere near difficult, either.

He saunters out of the cargo area with an easy step and makes a discreet motion to the slack-jawed guard at the gate. The guard snaps both to attention and his mouth shut, nodding in understanding.

"Not a word, sir," the guard says, in a hushed voice. He is not a clone. The Republic's prized clone troopers are too valued for combat to be wasted on a cargo bay guard-post, out here on an affluent Mid-Rim planet.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan replies, smiling.

Raising his hood, he dissolves into the crowds in the plaza adjacent to the docks. For the next twelve hours, there is nowhere he needs to be.

So he goes anywhere.

Obi-Wan is well aware there may be a mild panic aboard ship when his absence is discovered. But he has not been derelict in his duties; he has used the first three hours of official leave in visiting the wounded among his men, and made sure Cody knew he had left the ship. There is less to worry about with his second-in-command there to fend off any questions from the rest of the 212th.

What is left of the 212th, that is.

He slows his walk.

Their last battle had ended in victory, but a victory so hard-won that Obi-Wan had thought, in the cramped corners of his mind not occupied by deflecting blaster bolts and shouting orders and hauling wounded men away, that he would really have preferred it if Anakin were there.

But Anakin was not. General Skywalker and the 501st had been called away six hours before the beginning of the battle; doubtless to another world under Separatist siege, to face the horrors there.

And there, on a nameless planet, surrounded by enough natural resources to fuel a small army (partly why the Separatists took it in the first place), the 212th were cut down to half their number.

Obi-Wan's boot catches on an irregular paving stone. He does not trip; but there is a stutter in his pace nevertheless. A passing Rhodian nearly collides with him. He senses rather than hears the angry shout.

The last time they had come out of a battle this badly was Point Rain.

Obi-Wan ducks out of the crowd and into an alcoved doorway, pressing a hand to his side. The smashed rib - yes, _smashed,_ not bruised or cracked or even broken - from that particular incident is aching, as it does every so often. It is supposed to be fully healed.

It occurs to him that many battlefield wounds are supposed to be fully healed, when they are not. Especially those not seen.

"Are you all right?"

Obi-Wan glances up at the voice, startled. The door beside him is held open by a middle-aged male Togruta; the Togruta frowns worriedly at Obi-Wan, apron crinkling as he bends to peer under Obi-wan's hood.

Obi-Wan steps smartly backwards and lowers his head, evading those questioning eyes. "I'm quite fine, thank you," he murmurs. "My apologies for blocking your doorway."

The Togruta's magnificent montrals tilt into the bright late-morning light as he follows Obi-Wan out onto the stoop. "I'm not sure who you are, mister, but you look like you need some good caff in you."

"I prefer tea," Obi-Wan replies, not allowing his wariness to bleed into his tone. He watches carefully from beneath the rim of his cowl instead.

"We have that, too," the Togruta says cheerfully, rubbing a hand on his apron. "Come on in. You look winded."

After a moment's hesitation, Obi-Wan steps though the doorway. He finds himself in a bright little cafe, with a polished bartop and small, real-wood tables scattered about a chequered floor.

The cafe is filled with a lively number of patrons, though it is not so packed to be uncomfortably full. Obi-Wan takes the barstool indicated to him, and blinks in surprise when a small plate is slid in front of him.

"Our compliments to new customers," the cafe owner smiles at him. "You haven't tasted Oi-oi berry shortcake until you've tried ours."

"...Thank you."

"The name's Kuthun, by the way."

"It is good to make your acquaintance, Kuthun." Obi-Wan picks up his fork, still keeping his eyes lowered.

Kuthun places a paper napkin down by Obi-Wan's plate with a calloused ochre hand. "I know you do not have a face, but surely you can afford to give me a name?" The question is teasingly affable.

"I'm..." Obi-Wan searches for a name that is not an outright lie. "...Ben," he says finally. "I'm Ben." _Mandalorian starlight, and far-away Sundari..._

"Forgive me for asking, Ben, but why the hidden face?"

The first forkful of Oi-oi shortcake makes its way into Obi-Wan's mouth. He is not surprised at how delicious it is. Two months of field rations will do that to a man.

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before answering the question. "I have a well-known face," he says, simply.

Kuthun pauses in arranging the caff-cups behind the counter. "Ah. Got caught on the bad side of the law?"

"No, I'm not running from the law," Obi-Wan replies softly, head still lowered to allow his the shadow of his cowl to fall over his face. A thought occurs to him, and he grins ruefully to himself. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

"A celebrity, then? I'm afraid I most likely won't know who you are. I don't keep tabs on the popular stuff. That's all for the younger generations."

"Indeed," Obi-Wan murmurs, spooning up another forkful of cake.

"What tea would you prefer?"

"Do you have Sapir?"

"Of course. It's coming into short supply now because of the war, but we even have some Noorian-blossom Sapir here if you would-"

Obi-Wan's heart leaps in his chest. "Yes. Noori- I mean- Noorian-blossom Sapir. Please."

"I'll just be a minute, then."

As Kuthun turns away to brew the tea, Obi-Wan notices the voices coming from the holoscreens on every corner. He risks a glance upwards at the closest one.

To his horror, he sees _himself_ on the screen.

It is _that_ interview, given a few weeks ago. The one and only holonet press interview he has ever been coerced into in his life, and a disastrous one at that. The interviewer had seemed to ask all the wrong questions; memories Obi-Wan had kept carefully restrained had threatened to rise to the surface, and he had almost but not quite lost control when the interviewer asked a particular question about his men.

And then Obi-Wan notices the other patrons.

The friendly cacophony in the cafe lowers in volume as customers turn in their seats and give the screens their full attention. Kuthun reaches past Obi-Wan to turn up the volume on one of the screens; Obi-Wan hurriedly adjusts his hood again. It will not to do be recognised, especially now.

The Obi-Wan on the screen sits with languid grace.

The Obi-Wan in the cafe hunches on his barstool, hoping to make himself smaller. He cannot risk keeping his face upturned to the screen, so he listens keenly instead.

Oh dear. It seems to be the part about romantic attachments.

The producers appear to have have edited the interview with customary holo-press aplomb. With the screen flashing alternatively between the presenters' comments and Obi-Wan's actual words, he seems...evasive.

"Oh, the poor dear," an elderly Twi'lek lady pipes up from behind Obi-Wan. "He's obviously shy."

"Considering that he's called The Negotiator, I should think not, ma'am," Kuthun calls cheerily in her direction. There is an answering chuckle from the rest of the cafe.

The presenters on-screen are talking very fast, now. Obi-Wan can imagine pictures being pulled into view, gossip and slander and speculation-

_"_ _He seemed to be hiding something, don't you think? Now I can't speak for him, obviously, but an anonymous photographer came forward with some veeeery interesting holos captured just half a year ago, at a landing pad in the Senate District of Coruscant."_

_"_ _Now, dear viewers, I believe that's Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore!"_

Obi-Wan has snapped up his head to stare at the screen before he can stop himself.

The holo is not clear. It was obviously taken from a very long distance, and most likely by paparazzi following the Chancellor, and gleefully cashing in on the sudden appearance of Generals Kenobi and Skywalker - but what it shows is unmistakable.

A ring of Mandalorian royal guards facing outwards, and in the centre-

Satine, caressing his cheek.

_I'm still not sure about the beard._

_Why? What's wrong with it?_

_It hides too much of your handsome face._

Someone wolf-whistles in the back of the cafe. The sound jars Obi-Wan out of a place somewhere in the aether, where he his doing something akin to screeching. But Jedi do not screech. They...spar.

He really, really wishes Anakin were here right now. They always could fight out the worst of their moods together.

The cafe is a murmur of excitable voices now.

"Do you think they knew each other from when they were younger?"

"Forbidden love! How _romantic!"_

Obi-Wan nearly chokes on his last forkful of cake. On second thought, he might not want Anakin here after all.

Six months, that photographer had those photos. Obi-Wan muses that perhaps the photographer was waiting for the highest bidder.

"A cup of Noorian-blossom Sapir, perfectly brewed," Kuthun says proudly as he places a steaming ceramic cup before Obi-Wan.

"My thanks," Obi-Wan manages. He is glad his voice is somewhat hoarse, because he can hear his normal voice issue from a speaker directly above his head.

"You don't care for the Jedi generals?"

"I'm sorry?" Obi-Wan says, surprised by Kuthun's question.

"You don't seem to take the same interest in them as the rest of us do."

"Ah." Obi-Wan sips at his tea; the heat takes away some of the ache in his side, and brings to mind the tranquil days of his apprenticeship. It centres him, and allows him to speak with clarity.

"I would think that that they are presented as something other than what they are," he says softly. He senses Kuthun frown.

"If you're talking about how they're presented as heroes, that's exactly what they are," the Togruta says firmly. "Generals Kenobi and Skywalker, especially. I can't imagine fighting three campaigns back-to-back like they usually do. I don't know where I heard it from, but those Jedi have hearts of kyber."

"Hear, hear," a hearty voice sounds out from near the window.

"I wonder if they really are so...perfect," Obi-Wan murmurs, staring at his tea. "It seems rather contrived."

He had endeavoured to speak softly, but it would seem the rest of the cafe has heard him anyway, there is an immediate clamour as his words are denied.

"Now, you seemed like a likeable person before, Ben," Kuthun says, calming the customers. "But this kind of talk isn't right. The Jedi fight for us. We should thank them." His voice is overly loud in the sudden silence; there is only the tittle-tattle of the presenters on-screen to counter him.

"You should also thank the men who fight with them," Obi-Wan whispers, curling both his hands around his tea. He is glad he is wearing his standard Jedi robes. Bracers would be a dead giveaway.

"No doubt," Kuthun replies, seemingly mollified. "Without the clones, we'd all be Seppie fodder."

"They all look the same, though," a voice rings out. "Do you think the Jedi can tell them apart with some mystical sort of power-"

Obi-Wan stands abruptly. The screech of his chair on the tiles drowns out those last words. He drains his tea swiftly, and hands the cup back to a wary-looking Kuthun.

"My thanks for the tea. How much do I owe you?" Obi-Wan says, emotionlessly.

Kuthun blinks at him.

Obi-Wan raises his head just a little, enough for Kuthun to catch the clear blue of his irises and the sharp edge of his auburn beard.

Kuthun's intake of breath is sharp, shuttered.

"I had no idea," the Togruta whispers. His eyes are wider than the small cake-plate between them.

Obi-Wan raises a finger in front of his lips.

"The tea is on the house."

Obi-Wan falls completely still.

"It's the least I could do," Kuthun says. Some of his easy affability is bleeding back into his body language, now. "Thank you."

"And I thank you in return," Obi-Wan says, not without warmth. "I'm afraid I won't be able to return and sample your Oi-oi shortcake any time soon."

"That's fine," comes the whisper. "You do have hearts of kyber, you know. Every one of you."

Obi-Wan searches for an appropriate farewell. His customary one will not work.

"Goodbye," he says, with finality.

As the door closes behind him, he hears Kuthun dismiss the first of many questions from the customers.

Obi-Wan stands on the edge of the crowded square for a moment, and takes a calming breath.

The whine of repulsors suddenly cuts across the square. A sharp wind roars into the crowd from above. There are screams, at first; but then the screams turn into squeals of excitement.

Grasping the edge of his hood, Obi-Wan squints up at the sky.

He fights the urge to groan as he _senses_ the same time as he _sees._

_Anakin._

"Hey, Obi-Wan!" Anakin yells down at him from the open side of the LAAT/i, hanging precariously from the sliding door with one hand. "I'm back! And Admiral Yularen wants a meeting!"

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and opens them again.

The tracker in his comm unit. _Of course._

Without any choice in the matter, he steps forward and lowers his hood. "Anakin," he shouts up at the transport. He hopes the severity in his tone carries up even in this din. But then the wind from the LAAT/i repulsors picks up again, and there is a renewed squeal from the onlookers at his sudden appearance, so he gives up on _that_ , too.

"Come on up!" Anakin hollers. "I wouldn't have come to get you, but it was urgent! Leave your cup of tea for later, old man!"

The crowd is positively shrieking, now.

Standing there, with his cloak whipped about his knees and street debris fluttering about him, Obi-Wan wonders what sort of disciplinary action this will incur from the Council.

And then he decides he doesn't care.

He flexes his knees and leaps upwards. The Force buoys up under him and carries him to Anakin's forearm clasp and into the LAAT/i. The next moment he has risen from his crouch and is grasping a support strap from the ceiling.

"Sir," Cody says, from his right.

"Sir," Rex repeats dryly, behind him.

"Cody. Rex." Obi-Wan acknowledges, looking at nothing at all. Especially not Anakin.

But he does see something, right before the LAAT/i door closes and they rise up away; he sees Kuthun run out of his little cafe and spring into a salute.

The LAAT/i door shuts before Obi-Wan can return it.

The inside of the LAAT/i smells as every LAAT/i does: Metal, sweaty clone, and the tang of blood.

But the taste of Oi-oi shortcake is still on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find more Obi-Wan fics in this series, on my profile, or check out [The Silent Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522955/chapters/67306648).


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